Jon froze, then hurriedly rubbed his eyes hard.
Inside the cell before him, there was nothing but a stone bed and a tattered thin blanket draped over it…
There was no prisoner on the stone bed.
What the hell? Had he taken a wrong turn… or had Grindelwald gone to visit the neighboring cell… or maybe—
Jon frowned and turned around, because he heard footsteps behind him.
A gaunt figure slowly emerged from beneath the staircase.
It was the same toothless, frail old wizard Jon had seen at the fortress gate, leaning on a broomstick and limping toward him.
His movements were painfully slow, as though each step drained all the strength from his body.
He didn't spare Jon a glance. Instead, he walked straight into the cell, set the broomstick down in a corner, then struggled over to the stone bed. He collapsed onto it, pulling the tattered thin blanket around himself and curling into a tight ball.
...
"Greetings," Jon said respectfully.
The old wizard's eyes emerged from behind the tattered blanket as he studied Jon for a moment.
In a weak voice, he said, "Would you mind lighting a fire for me?"
It was June, and the weather was hardly cold. Even up in the mountains, the temperature should have been around fifteen degrees Celsius… yet the old wizard was shivering as if trapped in the depths of winter.
Jon paused, then raised his wand.
"Incendio!"
A red blaze sprang to life in the center of the cell, raising the temperature by several degrees.
"Good… thank you."
A faint hint of color returned to the old wizard's face. He propped himself halfway up on the stone bed, no longer clutching the tattered thin blanket so tightly.
"You mentioned earlier that you're the keeper of this prison?" Jon asked carefully, keeping his tone as courteous as possible.
"Yes… I am the only keeper of this prison… and also its only prisoner," Gellert Grindelwald replied calmly. "There's no contradiction there."
"You're absolutely right. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Grindelwald."
Jon nodded.
"Earlier, I only asked where your cell was, not where you were… that was my oversight."
"Jon Hart… if I remember correctly, that's your name," the old wizard said slowly.
"Yes," Jon answered at once.
"Then it seems my memory hasn't deteriorated beyond saving."
A weak smile tugged at Grindelwald's lips.
"I heard that name once, a few years ago."
Jon didn't quite know how to respond.
From the old man before him, he could see no trace of the Dark Lord who had once held power over the world.
A hunched back, a face carved with deep wrinkles, and sparse, gray-white hair…
Any old man in a Muggle nursing home would look livelier—more like a normal person—than him.
...
"Are you feeling sorry for me, youngster?"
A flash of pride suddenly appeared in Grindelwald's dim eyes.
"Hahaha… how interesting."
Jon said nothing, neither confirming nor denying it.
"Hahaha… I don't need anyone's pity."
Grindelwald shook his head lightly and continued laughing.
"The one lying here isn't some harmless old man… he's the most ruthless murderer of the twentieth century, the instigator behind one Muggle war and one wizarding war, a terrifying schemer woven from lies and dark magic…"
Gellert Grindelwald stopped and scratched his head gently.
"My apologies. I'm old… my memory isn't what it used to be. I can't even remember all the crimes they listed for me—enough to fill two whole sheets of parchment."
"You shouldn't feel any sympathy for me. Perhaps one of your elders, or the great-grandfather of one of your classmates, died directly or indirectly by my hand back then…"
The smile slowly faded from the old wizard's face, replaced by a deep, indescribable loneliness.
"I'm nothing more than a failure. Pity for a failure is, in itself, an insult."
"This isn't pity. It's respect," Jon said seriously.
"It has nothing to do with ideals, success or failure, or even right and wrong. Albus Dumbledore is an elder I deeply respect, and you were once his closest friend—so you deserve my respect as well."
Jon spoke slowly, and the old wizard listened just as carefully.
When Jon finished, Grindelwald seemed to pause for a moment before speaking again.
"I wouldn't have guessed you were so articulate… sit down."
"…As you can see, I don't have anything else here. If you don't mind, you can sit on the floor."
...
Jon sat down on the ground beside the fire, looking up at the aged, fragile wizard lying on the stone bed.
"So, what brings you here?"
Grindelwald's voice was faint, broken by occasional sharp coughs.
"This prison doesn't receive visitors very often."
"Why don't you think Professor Dumbledore sent me?" Jon asked.
"Albus would never come to me, nor send anyone on your behalf."
Grindelwald smiled bitterly.
"We severed all ties many years ago. Even when he came here a few years back, he only sent his phoenix to deliver a message…"
"…You think we're still friends? No, we're not. We became enemies long ago," Grindelwald continued calmly.
"I was responsible for his sister's death. And many of his friends and students—Shacklebolt, Tuft, Finchley, and countless others—were killed by me, directly or indirectly."
"Armando Dippet's death is also tied to me; he was struck by one of my curses and passed away a few years later…"
"And the sacrifices of my most trusted subordinates carry his shadow as well. Rosier, Abernethy, Goldstein… if they hadn't fallen one after another, I wouldn't have been driven step by step into a dead end during 1944–1945."
"It was Dumbledore who persuaded Minister Leonard Spencer-Moon to commute your death sentence to life imprisonment," Jon said softly.
"That was simply Dumbledore's way of doing things," Grindelwald said coldly.
"I'm not like him. I believe that killing a defeated opponent quickly and cleanly is the truest form of respect."
"Then why did you tell Dumbledore about the existence of Predictmagus?" Jon asked suddenly.